By Shevlin Sebastian
My wife denied that she was having an affair with Calvin.
“Calvin is like a brother to me,” Sharon said.
Once when I took a day off and was watching TV, Calvin called. Sharon answered, in a slightly breathless voice, “Hello, John is at home. He took leave today.”
Calvin put the phone down. “How often does Calvin call?” I asked my wife.
“He calls up now and then,” she replied.
“Why does he call when I am not at home?” I shouted suddenly, “why not in the night or the early mornings?”
“How am I to know? He is calling me up, not me him!”
What do you say to a reply like that?
Sharon told me, a year into our marriage that she was unhappy.
“You are a poor lover,” she said.
I have to admit that I am not good in bed. I lose control especially when Sharon is on top. She would always scream, “Shit!” and pull at my hair in frustration.
In the second year of our marriage, she met Calvin. They were members of the church choir. Calvin had an aquiline nose, thick red sensuous lips and long wavy black hair. He strutted around in the parish club, flexing his biceps in the sleeveless t-shirts that he wore.
As for me, I was frenetically busy in my advertising job with its long hours and punishing deadlines. I always returned home in an exhausted mood. Sharon, feeling bored, was eager for a chat and sex but I could do neither. She sulked often.
Sometimes Calvin would give Sharon a gift – either it was a handkerchief, or lipsticks and once, daringly, a black see-through panty.
“What’s going on?” I asked, feeling nervous.
“Relax, John,” she said. “you are getting paranoid. Not everybody has a one-track mind like you, thinking only of sex.”
I reached out for her and she spread her legs willingly. I felt less scared after our five-minute session, even though it was one-sided.
One morning Sharon said, “John, I want to visit my parents in Delhi. It’s been a year since I saw them. Can you come?”
She knew I couldn’t. The Olympics was going on and I was doing a major campaign for a blue-chip company.
“I can’t come now,” I said.
“Do you mind if I go,” she pleaded. “Calcutta is so boring. I feel so depressed. You can come later.”
“Okay,” I said. And Sharon went off to Delhi.
The next I heard from her was when she sent me the divorce papers by courier. I got mad. I was sure that her ‘brother’ Calvin had instigated her to do this. I decided that I would smash Calvin’s face with a crowbar and spoil his good looks.
I drove to the parish club and saw a girl in skin-tight jeans and a white t-shirt standing next to the billiards table. I asked her where Calvin was.
She smiled mockingly and said, “Calvin has re-located to Delhi.”